How They Got Here
by Warriorette12
Summary: "I think you and I are gonna get along just fine." Who knew Sarge would regret ever uttering those words? Well, the cosmos knew, and Simmons certainly knew. But it took Sarge a year to fully feel like, if he could go back in time and shoot his past self in the face for even daring to utter such blasphemy, he would. Why? It had all started with the little things.


**What was it that made Sarge come to hate Grif with a passion? RvB fans have asked that question since the very beginning and, after the season 14 episode 'Why They're Here', I began wondering exactly what might have happened. So here's what I think happened. Most of the events are my own expansions of references that Red Team have made to their pre-Blood Gulch Chronicles antics.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **Roosterteeth owns Red vs Blue, not me.**

" _I think you and I are gonna get along just fine."_

Who knew Sarge would come to regret ever uttering those words with a fiery passion?

Well, the cosmos knew, and Simmons _certainly_ knew. But it took Sarge a year to fully feel like, if he could go back in time and shoot his past self in the face for even _daring_ to utter such blasphemy, he would. Sarge never thought that he could come to hate a fellow Red soldier almost as much he hated those dirty _Blues_. At one point, he even considered the possibility that Grif was secretly a Blue who had infiltrated his army _specifically_ to drive him insane. It was a nice thought, as it would have given him a proper excuse to shoot his insubordinate Private dead. But alas, a call to Command confirmed that Dexter Grif was indeed a Red soldier. Red Command is never wrong.

For the first time, Sarge wished that, _just for this_ , they were wrong.

And to think he had thought his trusty _Simmons_ was the insubordinate one.

It had all started with the little things.

* * *

Day Two: "Private Grif! I trusted you to establish a defensive perimeter around the base! You just placed all of our guns on the ground!"

"I know, but think about it. When it comes time to fight, we'll already have all our weapons within reach! Easy access and no need to reload." Grif responded.

Sarge had never heard of that warfare technique and didn't buy the excuse, but he decided to let the young Private go. He hadn't steered them wrong yet anyway.

* * *

Sarge saw Simmons shake his head and groan, but he ignored him.

Day Four: "Private Grif! Do you know what happened to our supply of chocolate-flavored snack cakes? Private Simmons told me you ate them all, but I'm not going to trust a word he says until – "

"No, he's right I totally ate them all."

"You…you did?" Sarge was surprised.

Grif shrugged, "What can I say, I eat a lot. I need the energy."

"But there were 50 in that pack!"

"Yeah, a little more than a baker's dozen. Seriously though, could Command not send more than that? People need to eat down here."

Sarge frowned and turned away, making a mental note to have Command send two packs instead of one in the next drop.

* * *

Day Seven: "Private Grif! I thought I asked you to give me ten laps around the base! Why aren't you running?"

"Eh, why bother?"

Sarge blinked, taken aback at the absurdity of the question. It had been a week since Red Army had set up camp at Blood Gulch Outpost #1 and, although the Blues on the other side of the canyon had been very quiet, he was sure there were terrible schemes being cooked up in the meantime. He saw them sometimes, high up on a ledge overlooking the canyon. The fierce glint of their sniper rifle told him they were spying on him and his men, and he could only imagine what ambush they were planning. His men needed to be ready for that! So while he set his men to keep fit by running laps around their base every morning, and Private Simmons had jumped up at the order with scary enthusiasm, Private Grif always headed straight for the base's kitchen.

"Wha-'why bother'? Son, have you forgotten we are at war?"

Private Grif shrugged, "Doesn't look it to me." And he turned back to his sandwich.

Sarge frowned. Where was this coming from? On the very first day, he'd evaluated this young man and determined him to be a valuable asset to his team. Diligent, dedicated, and no matter how much Private Simmons had insisted on the contrary, dependable. However, he seemed to have had a complete personality change in the past week, showing himself to be lazy, a liar, and a bit of a smart aleck. Maybe it was his way of dealing with the stress of coming out of basic training so soon. Sarge hoped he would snap out of it.

"Private Grif," Sarge began, "I need you to stay in tip top condition! I know you've never dealt with Blues before, but I have. They're _despicable!_ I know it'll only be a matter of time before they come over that hill with their guns and – "

"Listen old man," Grif interrupted, "Nothing you say is going to make me get up and actually _run laps_ when there's no need for it. What'll even happen if they do come over, huh? They'll have _two_ bases in the middle of a box canyon in the middle of nowhere. Big deal."

Sarge couldn't believe he was hearing this. This young man _was_ pulled out of basic too soon. He clearly hadn't fully grasped why they needed to fight the Blues. 'Big deal', he was saying. Ha! This base was the only reason the universe hadn't been overrun with the infection that was Blue Army yet. There was a reason he went to sleep every night listening to tapes that sung 'Glory, glory to the Red Team!' over and over.

Private Simmons ran into the base breathing heavily. He took a moment to calm himself before he stood before Sarge, back straight and hand raised in a perfect salute, "All finished, sir! Is there anything else you would like me to do?"

Sarge looked between his two Privates – one stuffing his face and the other stood sweating before him – and grumbled.

* * *

Sarge had no idea where Grif got the snow from.

He knew his Private was lazy and seemed to be allergic to any work, but he didn't expect him to stoop to _this_.

"Hey Sarge, I found him!"

Sarge sighed for the millionth time that week. At least it had been easier to deal with Private Grif when he was avoiding work by hiding in the base. Sarge could just find him, give him an appropriate talking to before forcing him out there. At least Simmons, who had really stepped up as a model soldier in the past few weeks, could make sure he stayed by his side without sneaking back into the base again.

But Grif was crafty and, soon, he'd taken to hiding in the caves and on the cliffs around their side of the canyon. The first time he did it, it took Sarge and Simmons a full hour to find him. An hour that they could have spent on upgrading their rocket launchers and fixing their faulty targeting systems with the tools and parts Command had recently sent. After being caught three more times, Grif seemed to stop looking for new places to hide, and Sarge had dared to sigh in relief. Maybe now the young man would actually _help_ them when the time came to work.

But now, Grif had apparently built himself a _snowman._ In the middle of a hot canyon.

"It was worth a shot." the young man shrugged as Simmons pulled him into the base. He was dripping wet.

Sarge felt his fingers itching for his shotgun.

* * *

Six months into their stay in Blood Gulch, Command sent some officials to inspect the base. This was a standard, routine inspection and Command had called ahead a few days beforehand to allow Red Team to prepare. But Sarge would curse whoever at Command decided to give _Grif_ the message to pass on, because, on the day of the inspection, Sarge was completely baffled to look up at the sky and see a drop ship with a red stripe along the side fly above the canyon.

"What in sam hell is Command here for?" he asked his men.

"Oh, yeah," Grif said, "I was supposed to pass on a message. They said something about an inspection…"

"What?!" Simmons said, jumping up from his bed and running to the closet to pull out a broom, "When was this?"

"Um, two-no- three days ago…"

"UGH!" Simmons cried, "Why didn't they give _me_ the message?! I'm so much more reliable than _you_."

Grif turned to his fellow soldier and gave him a look, "Are you jealous?"

"Grif!" Sarge growled, heading back outside. By this time, the drop ship had landed and the large doors were opening.

He didn't need to worry for himself, as he kept his own quarters spick and span. He made sure everything was in working order and cleaned all his own weaponry, including his beloved shotgun. But his men's barracks were definitely not up to Red Army regulation, with clothes and crumbs and food wrappers everywhere (mostly by Grif's bed) and the kitchen and general recreation area hadn't been swept in the last two days.

"Huh," Sarge heard Grif say beside him. He must have followed him out, "They got here faster than I thought. Why can't they be this quick with our ration drops?"

Sarge took a deep breath before turning to Grif. These last few months with Grif had been worse than Sarge had anticipated and he hadn't counted a day, yet, when the young man had almost driven him to murder.

But this needed to be done to maintain the Red Team's honor.

"Grif," he began, "You know that I've come to realize that you are completely ineffectual when it comes to orders…"

"Uh huh."

"…and I've stopped trusting you with most important tasks, since you always find a way to screw something up…"

"No complaints here."

"…but I want you to do one thing for me now."

"What?"

"With the very last shred of trust I have for you, I want you to distract those guys from Command."

"You're crazy," Grif looked over at the two men coming towards them in bright red armor with white stripes down the shoulders, "What do I say?"

"Anything that would buy us time. Red Base needs to be perfect! You're good at making excuses, just do what you would do normally."

As Sarge turned back to the base to help Simmons clean, he prayed he wasn't making a mistake.

( _"Don't you remember the last time you sent him to distract Command during our surprise inspection?"_ Simmons would complain years later, _"He told them we were all in the base doing last minute cleaning because we had cholera and we were quarantined for a month! My ass still hurts from all the shots we got!"_ )

Yup, definitely a mistake.

* * *

It was another two months before Sarge had a moment when he wanted to actually kill Grif. He should have seen this coming, though. Grif was lazy, and would do anything to get out of work and, as he'd told Sarge several times, get out of the army. The Vegas Quadrant was only three parsecs away. And, while Grif had told him that _Simmons_ was the one who suggested going, he was beginning to think that was all a great lie, given that he knew who Grif was now.

Sarge should have taken all of that evidence and done something to prevent _this_ situation he was in now; he had Simmons in front of him, head bowed low in shame, and a missing Grif.

"He tricked me, sir," Simmons was saying, "He said we'd be heading to a gas station to get those D-batteries you wanted. But once he started talking about all the money we'd spend, I knew he was lying."

"So he's headed to the Vegas Quadrant?"

"I told you before, Sarge. _He_ was the one who suggested it ages ago and _I_ tried to stop him. I wasn't about to go AWOL on you, sir, so I took an escape pod back here…"

"Oh, when he gets back…" Sarge swore at the sky.

He immediately put a call in to Command and asked for Private Dexter Grif to be reassigned to another team or be sent back to basic training. Either would be fine with him at this point, since either would result in Grif being as far from him as possible.

Unfortunately, even after Sarge explained all the insubordinate behavior Grif had exhibited in the past eight months, Red Command insisted that Dexter Grif could not be reassigned and that his assignment at Blood Gulch Outpost #1 was necessary for the Red Team's victory. As unlikely and as horrific as that sounded, Sarge couldn't argue with the wisdom of Red Command.

Grif returned three days later and stepped out of the small ship he had taken to find himself face to face with a shotgun barrel.

"Uh," Grif sounded a little scared as he raised his hands, "Is that for a single gun salute to welcome me back?"

"Unless you want a single gun salute _to the face_ , I suggest you start running." Sarge cocked his shotgun once, hearing the first shell slip into the barrel.

Grif actually ran.

* * *

The last straw that broke the camel's back came the one time Grif and Simmons were sent to spy on the Blues alone. Sarge figured it was time that the two of them practiced some of the reconnaissance skills he had taught them in the past year. It was a risk, he knew. If the Blues caught his men, they would, no doubt, be subject to horrific torture. Although, thinking about it, Grif could probably do with some pain and have some sense shocked into him. Or carved into him. But Simmons was a useful asset to Red Team and Sarge hated the idea of breaking his streak of not having a man die on him, especially with his right hand man. But the risk was necessary if they wanted valuable information on their enemy. So far, they'd managed to fend those _Blues_ off the few times they'd tried taking Red Base and the precious flag, but they needed the _advantage._

"Saaarge!" Simmons called, running across the canyon, "Sarge!"

"What is it Simmons? Did you find out anything?"

"No, Sarge, that's not it! The Blues caught us spying on them. They're probably on their way over here!"

"Oh no!" Sarge grabbed his trusty shotgun, preparing for the inevitable battle, "We need to set up defenses, ASAP! Where's Grif."

"I think they got him. We need to rescue him."

Sarge paused, "Well, let's not go _that_ far…"

Simmons sighed. At this point, he knew there was only one way to make Sarge care enough about Grif to rescue him, "You gave him our only sniper rifle."

…

"Well, damn, we're going to need that," Sarge said slowly, "Alright then, let's go."

But when they reached the halfway point in the canyon, Sarge saw something that made his brain short circuit. Simmons was wrong. Grif hadn't been taken by the Blues. He was…

Sarge couldn't even bring himself to think about it.

"Grif!" he barked after his brain restarted, "What in sam hell do you think you're doing?!"

Grif turned away from the soldier in blue armor he had been… _speaking words at_ …and called back, "Sarge! You're not going to believe this!"

"Get. Back. Over. Here!" Sarge shouted back.

He couldn't believe this. Treason! On his own team! He waited until Grif came back over to their side of the canyon before he grabbed the sniper rifle out of Grif's hands and whacked him solidly across the head with the butt of it.

"Ow!"

"You…spoke…with a _Blue?!_ "

Grif seemed ignorant to Sarge's rising fury, "What? You _said_ we should get information. I did. Those Blues, by the way, not bad. That guy back there? His name's Tucker. He seems pretty cool. Apparently, their team sucks as much as ours does!"

Sarge felt the last bit of care he held for Grif, in the false hope that the young man would eventually change, slip away. With it went any amount of trust or respect he _could_ _possibly_ ever gain for the detestable soldier before him, even if he _did_ change. What replaced it was a feeling of complete hatred that Sarge wasn't sure would ever go away.

"You're dead to me, Grif."

The young soldier in the disgusting orange armor even dared to shrug in response, "I thought I already was."

* * *

It was after that day that Sarge began climbing onto the roof of the base at night and wished on all the stars in the night sky for Dexter Grif's demise.

 **Well, that was fun. What did you all think of that? It's my first time writing for these characters that I love so much and I'd hate to have written them too OOC. Tell me if you thought it was good.**

 **Till next time,**

 **Warriorette 12**


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